The Pandemic Birthday

A tale of turning four and the parents who managed a party.

The day is done. Our just-turned-four-year-old is asleep upstairs clutching an overstuffed, poorly-sewn orange woolen cat, a gift chosen by her sister from Etsy’s “handmade” and “under $20” filters. I stuff my Poison Ivy wig and my green velvet leotard, along with my husband’s plated abs (he was the Dark Knight for the day), into the costume chest. Big Sister wears her Cheetah costume (Wonder Woman’s nemesis) to bed. I shake the beach sand from the towels outside and add them to the wash. I pick up scraps of wrapping paper from the rugs. It was a happy day, despite the usual dips and swells that come from sugared up children and too much razzle dazzle. So why did I feel so unhappy?

Dad and I round out the day with a gin and lemon fizzy water and an episode of The Ozarks. The death and destruction surrounding an otherwise normal family wrapped up in terrifying dealings with a drug cartel does make me feel better about whatever it is I am worrying about. But when the episode ends and the TV screen is black again, the clock ticking in an otherwise silent house, I wander back to the question I’ve been asking myself all day: What are we even trying to do?

My husband, Mark, likes this poem — excerpted below — by Philip Larken. In our house when the kids are…